


this is your beating heart

by ftmsteverogers



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftmsteverogers/pseuds/ftmsteverogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never doubt, not even for a moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is your beating heart

I.

They never doubt, not even for a moment.  They kill, they breathe, they bleed, and they pray, but they do not doubt, not once.  Sometimes, with their hands pressed over each other’s collar bones, there is fear, but as they breathe the same air, foreheads pressed together—the harshness of their heartbeats pounding in their ears—they hold still enough that fear is irrelevant.  They are so still, sometimes, that the light passes over them and leaves them in the dark.

  
II.

“Cover me,” they say, in the way that parts of them are always touching—hands, ankles, shoulders, wrists—effortlessly, as though their bodies were molded to bend toward the other.  The top of Connor’s head slots perfectly into the curve of Murphy’s shoulder.  Murphy’s hand twitches as it taps against his thigh, restless.

 _“I wonder if I ought to regret this,”_ Connor thinks, his own hands tight in his lap.  His gun is two feet and four inches away from him in the drawer of his bedside table.

“Don’t hurt yourself by wondering,” Murphy says out loud, voice quiet, his lips by Connor’s ear.

  
III.

They wash out their wounds for the day, and Connor inspects his left palm, eyes narrowing.

 _“That’s gonna scar,”_ he thinks, and scowls.

Murphy looks up from where he’s picking aimlessly at his dirty t-shirt.  “Huh?”

“Look.”  Connor pushes his hand toward Murphy unhappily, mouth set in a thin, hard line.  “Fucking crucification, looks like.”

Murphy cradles Connor’s hand between his own, forehead creasing, and presses two of his fingers to his lips before pressing them to the center of Connor’s hand.

“Don’t compare yourself to Jesus,” he says, mouth quirking upward slightly.  “Fuckin’ disrespectful.”

Connor huffs a breath through his nose and curls his fingers around Murphy’s hands.

  
IV.

As they’re laying coins over the eyes of the dead, Connor watches Murphy wonder, morbidly even for him, who will put the coins over their eyes.

Connor’s jaw tightens.

“We’re gonna live forever,” he says.  Murphy, bent over a corpse, pauses.  Then, slowly, so very slowly, he straightens and says, softly, “Alright.”

“Alright?” Connor repeats, putting his hand on Murphy’s shoulder.

“Let’s move,” Murphy says, and hands him his rope.

  
V.

Sometimes Connor splashes water on his face and on the back of his neck and doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror when he looks up.  The bruising under his eyes—sometimes from punches, sometimes from those endless restless nights—is a permanent feature, now.  Faith has kicked his cheekbones twice.  He shudders in his cold bed and when Murphy thinks across the chasm—

_“I’m scared too.”_

—Connor pads across the floor and slips into Murphy’s one-armed embrace.  He sometimes even sleeps.

  
VI.

Connor and Murphy spend hours sitting next to each other, nursing cups of coffee and sending thoughts back and forth between them with their knees just barely touching.  Rocco, unnerved, sometimes asks to sit between them, as if he could absorb their connection through osmosis.

  
VII.

“Do you ever wonder?”  Rocco asks while Connor cleans the pieces of his gun, grease dribbling down his wrist.

“Wonder what?” Murphy passes Connor a clean rag over Rocco’s arm.

“How you can do the—you know.  The fucking thought thing.”  Rocco waves a hand vaguely between them.

Connor and Murphy glance at each other.  “No,” they say at the same time.  Connor goes back to his weapon, ducking his head to hide a smile.

  
VIII.

Sometimes Connor stays awake after Murphy falls asleep and listens to Murphy’s dreams, carefully waiting until Murphy’s sleep drifts toward dark and dangerous things.  Once, when they were younger, Connor had promised never to let Murphy have another nightmare, if he was able.  After watching those dreams firsthand, Connor has never once broken that promise.

Murphy makes a pained noise, face crumpling.

“Hey, Murph,” he murmurs, putting a hand on Murphy’s shoulder, shaking him slightly.  “Bad dream.  It’s okay.”

Murphy mumbles something incomprehensible and rolls over, pressing his face into Connor’s side.  Connor smiles and closes his eyes to sleep.

  
IX.

They’re lucky they found cover, behind a desk, before their heads got blown off their bodies.  Connor can feel Murphy pressed against him, back to back, so close that he can feel Murphy’s spine shiver against his own.  Bullets embed themselves in the wood  they hide behind with loud, explosive noises.

 _“Is this it?  Are we done?”_ Connor asks silently, breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

 _“Fuck, no,”_ Murphy replies, mouth a grim slant in his face.  His face has grown frighteningly pale.

Connor swallows roughly.  He has two bullets left, Murphy has four, and there are five men shooting at them.

“Good,” Murphy says viciously as he follows Connor’s train of thought.

“What?”

“Means we have an extra bullet,” Murphy answers with a feral grin.

  
X.

They never doubt, not even for a moment.  Sometimes, as they clean broken glass out of each other’s wounds, there is fear, but they never doubt, not even once.  Connor kneels next to Murphy, whose eyes are closed.  They sit there, praying like children, breathing in tandem, until dawn shatters through their window and cuts across their folded hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm barneswilson on tumblr! Come say hi :)


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